


Strudel

by aus_der_traum



Category: Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: Nazisploitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-01 12:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18800074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aus_der_traum/pseuds/aus_der_traum
Summary: Göring feeds Goebbels some strudel...





	Strudel

He is talking about Magda. Of course he is. That's how this goes, every time: Goebbels comes over under the pretext of matters of state or urgent party business and then, instead of talking about important issues, he sits at his table complaining about his marriage. And Hermann lets him. It might be useful to be deemed a friend by the dear doctor. He also can't help but find his problems amusing. Quite quaint really, the petty jealousy, the scarcely concealed lewdness, the boundless self-pity. Hermann is sure Magda would allow him to fuck her more often, if he treated her a little better than a breeding mare. Usually women don't appreciate that kind of disrespect, at least in his experience.

He leans forward to refill Goebbels' glass, then his own, while the minister of propaganda goes on with his rant about how his wife lets him starve with her coldness.

It's not just about sex. She doesn't feed him properly either, Hermann thinks as he watches Goebbels waving his dessert fork like a weapon instead of eating the strudel Hermann has had brought up from the kitchen. The man eats like a bird and he looks like one too. There is this saying (to rail like a sparrow) that immediately comes to mind when Goebbels is behaving like this. It's not very attractive.

At least he's drinking the cognac Hermann has poured him, drinks it like water in fact, and that's ultimately what gives Göring the idea.

Goebbels is pausing for a moment, collecting his thoughts, the prongs of the fork resting against his mouth, and Hermann pulls his chair closer, leans in and takes the fork from Goebbels' hand. The doctor is just staring at him absent-mindedly, his eyes glazed over, and offers no resistance.

Hermann cuts off a piece of strudel, gathers it up and brings the fork back up to Goebbels' mouth.

“Open up,” he demands and Goebbels want to say something in protest, opens his mouth, but Hermann is faster and before he can utter a word, he uses the opportunity to push the fork with the strudel into his mouth. This shuts Goebbels up for a moment. He tries to complain but his mouth is too crammed with food, he has to chew first, then swallow, before he can form coherent sounds again. Göring uses the time to prepare another forkful.

“Hermann, what--” Goebbels begins, trying to pull away, but Hermann's free hand shoots out, grasping his arm to hold him in place.

Goebbels is just a wisp of a man, his wrist is fragile, the bones delicate under Hermann's fingers. There is little he can do about this – apart from calling for help, and how embarrassing would that be? So he only looks at him – eyes wide – while Hermann raises the fork with the next bite.

“Be a good boy, Joseph,” he says, good-naturedly as always. “You need all the energy you can get, especially when you're getting worked up like this.”

And this time, almost unexpectedly compliant, Goebbels opens his mouth again for Hermann to feed him the prepared bite.

Perhaps he is even more drunk than Göring assumed? He studies him, searching for signs of intoxication. There are the slightly glassy eyes and there's the feverish blush on his cheeks, both could be ascribed to his agitation, but then there's the hungry constriction of his throat as he swallows, the quick flick of this tongue over his lips, and the pulse is racing beneath his skin, Hermann can feel it under the tips of his fingers. This is not simply drunkenness, this is also – and that was what he hoped for – arousal.

The next fork comes with an even larger piece of strudel, generously covered in whipped cream and vanilla ice which both have become runny over the course of the evening and Hermann is less careful to get all of it into Goebbels' mouth. Part of it never makes it into his mouth, but ends up on his lower lip and chin, and Hermann puts the fork down for a moment to wipe his thumb over Goebbels' bottom lip, then, as if not giving it any thought, he lifts the finger to his own mouth to lick the cream off it and Goebbels gasps, barely audible.

_

There’s a sharp, wicked gleam in Hermann’s eyes, perceptive and rapacious. Careless observers may forget, distracted by Hermann’s ostentatious garb, the bulk that speaks to banquets rather than to battlefields, what sort of animal he truly is. Goebbels does not think he’s ever underestimated Göring but this is…

There are creases at the corners of Göring’s eyes as they narrow in on him, his smile is wide, smug, utterly indecent in what it seems to suggest and Goebbels has a hazy sense he’s been pinned under a gunsight.

He draws his arm in toward him and accidentally sends the fork clattering onto the floor. They both look down at it. The noise momentarily clears the fog coiling through his head and Goebbels rises, teetering a little, to his feet.

“That was very-”

Hermann looks up, his hand is still wrapped around Goebbels’ arm and he pulls him now, down onto his lap, manhandling him with ease and making a soft, chiding sound, a disappointed parent scolding their unruly child. Suddenly the warmth of Göring’s broad thigh is beneath him, one strong arm wrapped around his waist to keep him there. He feels so weak and the feeling of this weakness seems to feed upon itself, making him dizzy with the blood rushing to his face and something in his stomach shifting weightless and aflutter.

“You’re not done with your dessert, Joseph,” he says.

He uses his hand this time to pick up a piece of strudel, a sticky mess of dough and apple and cream. When Goebbels isn’t quick enough to open his mouth he presses it against his lips, smearing the syrupy concoction about, sending flakes of pastry crumbling down onto his shirt. He can feel the heat in Göring’s fingers as they rub against him, he opens his mouth with a defeated little groan and Göring stuffs what’s left of the strudel inside and leaves them there, stroking his tongue as he swallows.

Göring swipes his fingers through the pool of melted ice cream and brings them again, dripping, to Goebbels’ mouth and though he has to close his eyes to do it, Goebbels’ finds himself leaning forward to suck them clean.

“What a clever mouth,” Hermann says. It sounds almost like a purr. “You’ve been wasting your talents.”

Another piece of strudel is pushed inside his mouth. The sugar is cloying, sickly and he makes a soft noise of protest even as he struggles to swallow quickly enough for the next mouthful. Göring chuckles and wraps his sticky hand around Goebbels’ neck, the heel of his palm pressing just lightly against his Adam’s apple so he can feel it’s weight against him with every bob of his throat. He looks, with some distress, of what is left on the plate.

“Hermann,” he says, when he has a chance to choke out the word. What he really means is, please.

_

Göring examines him as he sits there on his lap, perched on his thigh like a little bird, looking a bit distressed. It's apparent he wants something, and Hermann will give it to him. It's what the rules of hospitality require and if Hermann is anything then a generous host.

“I'm sorry, how inattentive of me,” he says, “surely all this sugar must have made you thirsty.”

He doesn't bother with a glass this time but reaches directly for the bottle. The liquor glows like amber in the heavy crystal. Goebbels looks at it, then back at him, his mouth half-open, as if still considering trying to run away or calling for help. He doesn't though, he sits still, apart from the small nervous tremors running through his body like chills from a fever.

He must be already drunk enough by now, why else would he be so pliant? But you never know for sure and Hermann has to make certain his scruples are safely laid to rest. He puts the bottle to Goebbels' lips, tips it, and Goebbels tries to swallow like a good boy, but it's too much all at once and a good amount of the cognac spills out of his mouth over his chin, running down his neck.

“Now look at the mess you made of yourself,” Hermann says with a slight, almost disappointed shake of his head as if somehow all of this was Goebbels fault, the stains of cream on his shirt, the strudel crumbs on his waist coat, the cognac-soaked tie. He does look like a toddler left to play with his food, so the logical consequence is that he has to change out of his clothes.

Hermann sets down the bottle to loosen Goebbels' tie, then undo the top buttons of his shirt.

Goebbels makes a motion with his arm as if to stop him but then his hands only find the lapels of Hermann's robe and he just clutches at them, helplessly.

“What are you doing,” he asks. His voice has nothing of the great orator Doctor Goebbels, it sounds small and feeble and terrified and Göring pauses a moment to cup Goebbels' cheek in his large palm.

“Don't you worry, little sparrow,” he says, “I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just getting you out of your ruined clothes.”

It should be obvious at this point but somehow Goebbels seems to finally realise what is going on, that this won't merely end with the rest of the strudel stuffed into his mouth. He tries to move, struggle even, but Hermann holds him without any effort, and he quickly comes to realise that it's no use to resist, so he tries arguing instead.

“Hermann, you're mistaken,” he says, “I'm not--”

But Göring knows perfectly well what he is. One look at him would be enough for anyone to understand how accurate the rumours about the minister of propaganda really are, how all of his declarations of disgust about homosexuality are little else than proclamations of self-hatred.

“There's no need to pretend, little sparrow,” Hermann says, patting Goebbels' cheek affectionately. Then without warning he gets to his feet, but before Goebbels can stumble or fall Hermann has caught him by the waist and pushed him up on the table, between all the plates and glasses and cutlery, much like newly wed men might lift their wives on kitchen tables in a sudden bout of passion. It is perhaps something Goebbels has dreamt of doing himself countless times, sweep a mistress off her feet in a demonstration of virile strength and dominance but now it's him who's been handled like a doll.

Hermann leans over him, so large in comparison, overwhelmingly large, and whispers: “I know why you come here at this time of night, Joseph, on these inappropriately late visits, and I can hear what you're saying between the lines when you're lamenting about how unhappy your marriage is, about all your needs that are left unfulfilled. I can see what you're asking for.”

Goebbels' words of protest sounds so weak, they are easily ignored. What does it matter that he claims he doesn't want this, when only a few moments ago he greedily sucked the cream off Hermann's fingers. It takes no imagination to understand the meaning of this. Clearly Goebbels must have been aware of what he was doing.

Hermann eyes him suspiciously as he sits there on the table edge, legs spread as to accommodate Göring's body between them. It isn't the posture of someone who is forced; intimidated maybe, a little afraid, but afraid of what? His own desires?

Hermann doesn't care too much. He deserves a reward for all the hours of patient listening and sympathetic nodding and now it's time for Goebbels to pay up. He wants to see what it is that Magda deliberately abstains from, the real person under the expensive suits, beyond party functions and state dignities, that little sparrow naked and stripped bare for him.

It's easier to take care of his clothes like this when he's fully exposed to Hermann's hands, placed on his table like another course of the menu, ready to be devoured. Soon the tie has come to lie in a wet heap on the table, the waist coat has been unbuttoned, then the shirt is falling open. Goebbels is wearing a vest beneath it of course and Hermann is getting tired of layers.

The sound of the tearing fabric makes Goebbels jump but Hermann is careful not to let him escape, not now, when he's so close to what he wants. Impatiently he pushes the waistcoat, the shirt, braces, the remains of the vest over Goebbels' shoulders.

Goebbels' skin is pale, his torso lean, boyish but for the sparse patch of hair on his chest and the thin dark trail leading downwards, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. He wiggles under Göring's gaze in discomfort and there's still the risk he could attempt to get away, so Hermann reaches out to clasp the skinny ribcage with both hands to keep him in place. He is surprisingly soft to the touch, especially given how slight he is. Hermann runs his thumbs over the bones that are as plainly visible under the delicate skin as he expected. Goebbels really needs some more strudel.

“So pretty,” he murmurs under his breath while Goebbels seems to freeze under his touch, just like the little toy he's supposed to be, a precious plaything in his collection. How small he is, how large the area that Hermann's fingers can reach. He seems so fragile, as if Hermann could just crush him with his bare hands.

He rubs a thumb over one of Goebbels' nipples, experimentally, merely to see if it has any effect and Goebbels makes this wonderful, whorish sound, completely shameless really, that he can't resist doing it again, rubbing at it, then when it grows harder, pinching it, rolling it between the pads of his fingers, and the poor man gasps and pants as if he was slowly killing him.

Hermann likes his boys responsive, he appreciates such reactions, and it makes him almost forget about other parts of Goebbels he wants to explore.

_

He imagines he can feel the desperate fluttering of Goebbels’ heart, racing to cast a flush of pink across the skin beneath his hands. His nipples too, grow rosy under Göring’s touch. Perhaps he grows a little cruel with his fingers, crushing, pinching with the flats of his fingernails until Goebbels bites his lip and whines and his good leg kicks a little against the side of Göring’s thigh.

“Now, now,” Göring says, petting Goebbels’ hair as though he were any other one of his exotic pets. “Sweet little thing.”

He smiles at the way Goebbels flinches at the emphasis. For a moment a stormy knot of outrage seems to pinch Goebbels’ features, but he’s still blushing and there’s something plaintive and pathetically yearning in his anger.

“So many girls, Joseph,” Göring says, his tone at once indulgent and amused. “You know it’s rather desperate of you. You play a good enough role for them I’m sure. A little devil, hmmm?”

He pinches Goebbels’ nipple again while he strokes his fine, dark hair, combed back still so slick and neat from his face. When he leans forward Goebbels has to crane his neck back to match his gaze, from this angle he seems to be almost all eyes. Goebbels’ slim fingers pluck at his wrist in some non-committal gesture of resistance.

He cradles the back of Goebbels’ head in his hands and presses their lips together and for a brief moment Goebbels thrashes under him like a rabbit caught in a snare but Göring merely holds him tight, kisses him harder, looming over the table so Goebbels has to grasp at him to keep from toppling backwards. With a little cry he gives up the struggle and yields to Göring’s assault, his lips parting so Göring can kiss the caramel sweetness of liquor and sugar from his tongue, lying now meek and still in his mouth.

“It’s natural that the weak submit to the strong,” Göring says, drawing apart to catch a breath. Goebbels is still clinging to him, one foot half hooked behind his knee, as though he’s afraid if he doesn’t Göring will simply let him fall back amidst the remains of their dinner. He’s quivering quite badly, perhaps just the strain of keeping those tight little fists buried in Göring’s lapels.

“What do you say? Man is an animal? We’re in agreement there.” He glances down at the Goebbels’ hands and notes, with obvious pleasure. “My goodness, Joseph, you’re shaking.”

Göring slowly lowers him down onto the table, pushing aside plates and silverware with no regard. Goebbels winces at something, a fork or a plate against his back maybe, or maybe just the painful prickling of this exposure, laid out before Göring, half stripped amidst a mess of other sweetmeats meant to be consumed. He takes his hands from Göring and holds them awkwardly against his chest as though he could shield himself that way and Göring huffs a slight laugh, charmed that such incongruous naivete exists here to be savoured.

He notices the tense little pulse in Goebbels’ temple once he’s rid him of his belt, his trousers and he’s lying there naked but for the stern looking steel and leather brace he wears to support his lame right leg. He’s thrown his hand across his mouth and Göring can seem him gnawing on his thumb. Between his legs Goebbels’ prick is a pretty thing, plump with arousal and when Göring slowly strokes his palm up the inside of his left thigh, brushing over that tender skin, the fine, soft dusting of hair, he can see it twitch.

Göring allows his hand to pass over Goebbels cock untouched, rests it against the severe jut of his hip bone. He makes an almost disapproving sound and watches how the noise is like the sharp swish of a whip to Goebbels who starts and shakily attempts to rise onto his elbow, almost knocking over a jug of cream. Göring pushes him back down against the table hard enough to make all the ceramic rattle.

“Open your mouth, sparrow.”

He barely gives him time to comply before raising the jug, fingers digging into the hollow contours of Goebbels face, feeling the faint scratch of his stubble as Goebbels opens his mouth. He pours the cream from a height and Goebbels tries frantically to swallow fast enough.

_

 

Göring isn’t a monster, he doesn’t want to literally drown Goebbels in cream, he doesn’t want him to be sick either. What he does want is paint Goebbels with it, spiralling out from the mouth, covering his nose, his chin, his cheeks, his whole face in obscenely slick white fluid. Goebbels, unable to let him out of his sight is blinking furiously against the flood but he doesn’t complain.

Göring widens the application area, pours the cream over Goebbels’ neck, watches it pool in the hollow of his throat, underlining the fact that he is still swallowing, then he pours out the rest over his sternum down to his navel. He can see the anticipation, the treacherous stillness, the hopeful twitch of his cock, but he runs out of cream before he reaches his genitals. He must use something else then. His gaze travels over the table until a considerate rest of ice cream catches his attention. That will do nicely, he decides.

Goebbels doesn’t move an inch when Göring lets go of him but his eyes follow his every movement, dark and huge in the cream-pale face. He can’t see what Göring is looking at, but it’s obvious he doesn’t care. His gaze is fixed on him, he still looks hungry. He is biting his lip as if to stop himself from saying something or making another undignified noise, but it won’t be much use. Göring wants to hear all the undignified noises Goebbels is capable of, and he will do anything necessary to get them out of him.

He runs his hands through the mess on Goebbels’ chest, spreading the cream like lotion on his skin, then he lets them glide upwards to the exposed column of his throat, closing playfully around it. It is unmistakable what this means though: it’s a hold of ownership and Goebbels escapes another needy whine at the touch.

As Göring leans over him to reach for the ice cream he notices how harsh Goebbels’ breathing already is, loud, stuttering, distraught, he can almost hear his effort to remain calm but the closer he gets the more uneven it becomes. He glances at Goebbels’ lips that are half open, notices how he’s watching him from heavy lidded eyes.

He is ready to be kissed again, he realises.

And this time Goebbels returns the kiss properly, he’s not just lying there and letting it happen when Göring’s tongue slides against his, licking the cream from his mouth, but he mimics the motion, apparently unused to following another’s lead but doing his best to accommodate him.

Bless him, his hands come up to clutch at Göring’s shoulders, trying to pull him down further so he can wiggle against him, desperate for some friction against his neglected cock, he even spreads his legs wider in an attempt to wrap them around Göring to drag him closer and Göring lets him for a while, he enjoys this kind of abandon even though it’s not Goebbels’ place to make demands and he’s quite capable of withstanding his feeble attempts to be pulled on top of him.

He just keeps kissing him to establish a rhythm between them, a harmony of back and forth, and when he’s satisfied with their accomplishments, he gently takes Goebbels hands and forces them back to his sides, pinning them there with ease.

“Is this really what you’re asking for, little sparrow?” he whispers into his ear once he’s got Goebbels immobilised, and then he takes a tiny step forwards, closes that distance between them, so there’s not just the weight of his belly bearing down on Goebbels but also the full hard length of his cock.

“Oh,” Goebbels says surprised, and again “Oh!”, his mouth a perfect depiction of the sound, his eyes wide. He has even stopped his frantic squirming, his limbs have gone slack against the table top. Only his cock is still pressing stiff and excited against his captor.

Göring doesn’t see the point of easing him into this, there is no way out of this for Goebbels anyway, so he grinds himself against the doctor to give him a good idea of the size of him and of the feel of their cocks rubbing against each other between their bodies, how good, how magnificent it feels, before he returns to the original plan to get the ice cream.

He scoops it up with his hands, it’s not firm and frozen anymore but still cold enough to cause some discomfort.

“No,” Goebbels says when he understands Göring’s intention, “No please, don’t.” But he doesn’t try to get up and his hands stay at his sides too.

“Be a good boy and lie still for me,” Göring says with a benevolent smile before he places his hands around Goebbels’ erection, engulfing it in the cold mass.

A violent shudder runs through Goebbels’ body and he makes a series of pitiful noises but apart from that he just suffers quite bravely through the sensation. The ice cream is melting quickly on his hot skin, it’s really not that much of a torment as he makes it sound. He just seems so very sensitive.

As soon as the ice is oozing through his fingers, Göring starts to move his hands – one stroking Goebbels’ balls ever so gently, the other giving his cock a couple of determined pulls that make Goebbels arch from the table into his touch.

_

He would like to show Goebbels what he looks like right now. There’s a chandelier above the table that catches flashes of their movements in little pieces of glass, shifting colours. The cream makes Goebbels skin look a little darker than it really is, his cock is flushed the prettiest rose colour as it slips through his hand. He stops moving his fist and Goebbels keeps squirming beneath him, fucking into his grip until Göring chuckles and he realizes what he’s doing and his hips twitch to a stop. He makes a breathy, high pitched whine that sounds completely mortified and Göring watches him bring one arm half way to his face, as though to cover his eyes, but then he hesitates, shivering, and drops it back to the tablecloth.

Göring has to grin at that, who knows what Goebbels is thinking but he imagines perhaps he is trying to be a good boy now. It’s a good instinct anyway, Göring doesn’t want him hiding his face, not those eyes that give everything away. Still, he gives Goebbels’ cock one tight squeeze around the root and then takes his hand away and grabs the wrist of the offending arm. This is re-enforcement, keeping that arm pinned flat on the table and letting all his hunger bubble up in the ferocity tightening his fingers around those bird-like bones. He wants to leave a bruise, he realizes, something pretty, purple and yellow and green, like an opal.

“Hermann…please…” Goebbels gasps, this keening weakness in his tone that only encourages further use. Göring wonders if he’s delicate enough to break. He kisses him again, a messy clash that knocks their teeth together and bites at Goebbels’ lip until Goebbels’ cries become so shrill and desperate the urge to try and draw blood from him becomes almost overwhelming.

He still has his other hand between Goebbels’ legs, stroking his balls, gentle enough despite everything else. He could tell at once from the crack of Goebbels’ toes as they curled so very, very tightly, how sensitive he must be there. A more deliberate touch might be torture. He runs his thumb down the seam of Goebbels’ sack and watches as his eyelids fly wide then drop to a dazed half mast and a shiver passes through the whole length of his body. He raises his head a fraction and knocks it back against the table with a despairing groan, as though this is all just too much to bear.

“What a lovely toy you are,” Göring says, musing to himself more than anything. Goebbels shakes his head but doesn’t open his mouth to argue. Of course, his lower lip is clenched so tight between his teeth that words might be difficult.

When Göring’s hand slips back behind Goebbels’ balls and pries into the shallow crevasse of his ass, Goebbels goes completely still apart from the hectic rise and fall of his breast as he pants. He stops breathing though, when Göring runs his ice cream slippery fingers over the tight little pucker of his asshole. He pushes against it, just a little. Goebbels is clenched, almost vibrating with tension and Göring just smiles sweetly at him and strokes back and forth, back and forth. There’s a bright, insensible alloy of terror and shame and desire in the ring of white around Goebbels’ shocked eyes and the shallow, panicked way he gulps in air when he can hold his breath no longer.

He’d wondered, just a little, if Goebbels really was this sort of virgin – not because of the rumours, of course there’s always a reason for such gossip, but Goebbels’ desperation seemed so obvious to him he could hardly believe no one had put him down into his place the way he was so clearly begging for. Another sign of what degenerate times they had been living in, in the new, strong, proud Germany they are forging, boys like Goebbels will be able to serve their country in the way that best suits them.

He passes his hand down Goebbels’ chest, marvelling again at the span of his hand against that narrow torso, his own erection pushing instantly against the inside of his robe as he thinks how tightly Goebbels will fit around his cock, how easily to move his legs, his body, however it pleases him best. He undoes the tie around his waist with one hand and the blue silk falls open and reveals the large, proud stand of his cock.

Goebbels stares at it, his mouth falling open in a way that Göring would take for invitation in any other circumstance.

“Wait…” Goebbels whispers. “I don’t..”

Göring leans down over him and presses the bare searing heat of his erection against Goebbels’ skin, sliding against the slick mess of ice cream and the sweat of Goebbels’ body.

“No, wait,” Goebbels says again and each word sounds like a battle for him to force out.

_

“Isn't this what you've come for?”

It is unmistakably a rhetorical question. At this point it doesn't matter what Goebbels' intentions were, at first, earlier in the evening, before all of this started. If he liked, he could pretend he didn't ask for it. He could pretend he didn't come to Göring's home with the need to be fucked written all over him, crystal clear in every approval-seeking laugh, every nervous fidgeting with the silverware, in every look and glance he gave him. But who would believe him? Surely it must be difficult even for himself to be convinced by so blatant a fairy tale. It's not just the fact he ended up on the table, naked, covered in the remains of dessert, his cock hard against his belly, it's also the question of how he got there. An attentive observer might ask why he didn't offer any kind of resistance, not at any point over the course of the evening, if he really believed in his own words about such degenerate acts. It does make you wonder if his declarations of disgust for homosexuals are indeed a heartfelt sentiment and not merely a lie fabricated to deceive himself as well as mislead others about his true nature.

There's no way anyone would believe him if he said he didn't offer himself up. That he didn't want this. And they both know it.

Only now Goebbels is struggling for words, his hands grappling at the table cloth, the poor helpless little sparrow, while Göring is looming above him, rubbing himself slowly against Goebbels' stomach, allowing him to get accustomed to the feel of his cock on his slippery skin, learn its weight and size. Göring's movements against him leave little doubt about what is going to happen. He is going to slick himself in the cream he poured all over Goebbels and then he's going to grasp his legs to pull him closer to the table's edge, spread them open and-

“Please, Hermann,” Goebbels pleads. “Please let me go.”

“I don't think so,” Göring says. “Not before we had a bit more fun together, you and I.”

He leans over to kiss him again but now, finally, Goebbels' is beginning to fight him, flap beneath him like a bird with a broken wing.

“Let me go, let me go, let me go,” he repeats in a litany of panic and that's clearly not the best precondition for a kiss.

Göring straightens himself with an exasperated sigh, gets hold of one of Goebbels' wrists and with a quick yank pulls him from the table and to his feet. Goebbels puts his hands against Göring's chest, trying to push him away but naturally he doesn't stand a chance, Göring is so much stronger and heavier, so he resorts to pounding his fists against him, weakly, half-heartedly you could say, like a girl making a point. But Goebbels isn't an innocent maiden and Göring isn't a brash suitor, and that's why Göring forgets about his usual good-naturedness for a second, raises his hand and strikes him across the face to snap him out of this folly.

“For fuck's sake, Joseph, pull yourself together.”

For a moment it seems to work, Goebbels appears dazed, one hand pressed against his cheek where Göring hit him. The red imprint left by Göring's palm is lurid, more lurid even than his previous blush, and he looks up at him as if he couldn't believe what's happening, his eyes impossibly large and bright. The effect of the slap lasts long enough for Göring to reach over the table to take up a plate that has still some melted ice cream on it while Goebbels stays rooted to the spot and watches him nervously. His confusion makes it easy to turn him around and steer him trough the room towards the sofa, pushing him forwards when he's not fast enough. Goebbels stumbles and almost falls but Göring catches him by the upper arm, his hand like a vice, thwarting all plans of escape Goebbels might still have had.

He is meek as a lamb until Göring shoves him forwards so he comes to kneel on the sofa, his ass fully exposed, and he realises Göring's still intent on going through with his plan.

“Please,” he says, trying to twist from Göring's grasp, “I don't want this, please don't- Hermann, I'm begging you! Don't do this.”

But Göring is not in the least impressed by his pleas. If anything they make Goebbels more interesting. Such a powerful man brought so low, who couldn't see the appeal of that?

“Hush,” he tells him and “keep still” and Goebbels caves in.

Göring directs him to put his hands on the back rest, then places his own hand between Goebbels' shoulder blades to hold him down, relishing the shivers running through the body, the goose bumps that spring up under his touch, all these uncontrollable tell tales of his distress. Then he pours the last remains of the vanilla ice over Goebbels' arse which elicits a squeak of shock that's nothing less than adorable.

Carelessly he puts the plate aside, unable to take his eyes away from Goebbels trembling frame. He watches how the melted ice runs over the cheeks and down his thighs, how it trickles into his ass crack, and how lovely it makes him squirm.

And Göring, for all the connaisseur he is ( _Vorfreude ist die schönste Freude_ , as they say), is suddenly growing impatient. His cock is throbbing, and he really, really wants to do something about it. He takes a step closer so his thighs are flush against Goebbels', his erection pressing threateningly against his arse.

Goebbels gives a desperate whimper at the sensation.

“Hermann,” he says and it sounds like a sob.

Göring reaches around and wraps his fingers around Goebbels' cock. He finds it still rock hard, clear evidence how much he enjoys their little game.

“Why don't you beg me for it, little sparrow?”

“Beg you for what?” Goebbels sounds high-pitched, the panic has returned to his voice. When Göring doesn't answer, he says the first words he can think of: “Please, Hermann, I've never- and you're so huge, I can't... You cannot... please, don't!”

What a little prude the doctor is. Göring can't suppress an amused grin. He can't even bring himself to say it out loud what he dreads so much.

“Why don't you tell me what you don't want me to do? How could I know what it is without you telling me?”

Goebbels makes an incoherent sound that could also be caused by Göring's hand around his cock.

“Please-” he begins and takes a deep breath before finishing the sentence. “Please don't fuck me, Hermann,” he finally chokes out.

“But you were so obviously made for fucking, little sparrow. What else should I do with you if not fuck you?” Göring is rubbing himself against Goebbels while he speaks and Goebbels' cock in his hand gives an involuntary twitch. Now look who's getting excited, he thinks. He's always known Goebbels to be a liar but it's still nice to see the proof. “Don't you want to feel how perfectly I can fill you, how wonderful my cock will stretch your tight little hole? How thick and large, can't you imagine?”

_

“No,” Goebbels shivers against him and the word is barely more than a whisper, a kind of meaningless, breathy moan.

Göring slips his cock between the cream slicked skin of Goebbels’ thighs. He can’t see Goebbels’ face, but he knows, from the muffled sounds of a cry struggling to be stamped out – and how poorly the sweet doctor is managing to keep himself together – exactly how hard he must be chewing on his lip.

“No?” Göring lays the heat of his body over Goebbels, laughing deeply against his ear. His cock slides against the underside of Goebbels own. His hand, flashy with rings, grips both of them.

“No…I don’t-” Goebbels pants and the sentence clatters to a stop when Göring squeezes them together, a silent hitch in his breath and then a gasp, like he’s suffocating. “-I can’t.”

“You can’t imagine?” Göring grunts, half derision half dismissal and then makes a deeper, drawn out rumble of pleasure as he pulls his cock out – through the vice of his grip, the hard, searing silk of Goebbels’ erection gliding against his shaft – then thrusts back in, fucking through Goebbels’ legs. Goebbels thrashes his head, cursing Göring brokenly under his breath, the sound soft and harsh at the same time. 

“You’re imagining right now,” Göring scoffs. He snakes his hand into Goebbels’ hair, fingernails lightly scratching as they glide through the dark, sweat slick strands, slowly, up, up, up. He starts to make a nice tight fist and then stops and smiles as Goebbels’ makes an urgent, betraying whine of disappointment. He ruffles Goebbels hair instead and then pulls him close back, palm pressed against the fluted column of his windpipe and then down his chest, over ribs that would be so easy to break, constricting him in this embrace.

“You’re congenitally incapable of telling the truth,” Göring hisses, eyes narrowed with arousal, pumping his hips against Goebbels’ body, rough and careless.

Goebbels makes a hot, shattered sound. “Will it hurt?”

“Do you want me to be gentle, little sparrow?”

Goebbels is squirming against him, moving back into his thrusts as best as he can. There’s a catch in his breath every time he inhales, like any moment it might get away from him, too fast, too heavy for his wretched little lungs to keep up with. Maybe that is why he doesn’t answer, maybe he is too busy making those lovely, needy, pathetic noises, everything that Göring wants to hear. Maybe he realizes that they both already know the answer to such a question. It’s the last thought that births the smirk on Göring’s face and the stir of a righteous, primal ember of possession in his gut, something that makes him lose his rhythm and snap his hips against Goebbels in an erratic, huffing rut. 

“You can go home, Joseph, and think about how desperately you want it.” Göring growls the words between thrusts. “All these filthy things that have gotten you so hard, but especially, especially how much you need to be pinned down and bred like a little maiden, made to squeal like one. You know I’m right, you won’t be able to shake it away, such a naughty boy, wishing that you really had been raped, but you don’t even deserve-”

Goebbels comes over his hand with a scraped raw cry. Göring wrenches his head to the side so he can watch, in profile, the sight of the climax laying Goebbels so bare that even as drunk on he is on his own lust, the flavour of shame and pleasure written across the doctor’s face is clear; his drowning pupils expanding, the half senseless flutter of his eyelashes as Göring keeps fucking his thighs, the weak struggle as Göring palms the slick of his semen against both their cocks. He has never seen Goebbels like this.

Göring breathes deeply, a tight feeling almost like a migraine beginning to pound at his temples as he comes in a sequence of hot jerks. He collapses forward, crushing Goebbels beneath him.

After a while he raises his hand, a mess of cream and spunk to Goebbels mouth but Goebbels groans in protest and turns away. Right now, the feeble earnestness of such token resistance merely makes him chuckle throatily. He wipes his hand blindly across Goebbels face and pats him gently on the cheek.

“The next time you pay a social visit Carinhall, I will fuck you properly, Joseph.” He yawns. “Keep that in mind and make such decisions accordingly, hmm?”

~

**Author's Note:**

> Collaborative fic, written by Vice and Tisiphone and based on a prompt by Krautmarch:  
>  _"Fanfic idea: Goering awkwardly has to contain his arousal as Goebbels seductively eats a strudel"[*](https://jueppchen.tumblr.com/post/113802193099)_  
> Originally published on tumblr in eight parts between the 15th and the 30th of May 2017.


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